


A Study in Sulfur

by angeiei77



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Demon!Sherlock, Demons vs. Angels, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sabriel - Freeform, Sherlock spoilers through s2 e3, Supernatural spoilers through end of s6, gabriel in disguise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1906365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeiei77/pseuds/angeiei77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively named "The Time Sam, Dean, and Cas Helped John Figure Out What The Hell Was Killing Those People While Simultaneously Getting Destiel, Sabriel, and Johnlock To Happen"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction can also be found on fanfiction.net with some slight changes.

"Sherlock, come look at this!"

"Busy," Sherlock grumbled from his position on the couch. He was lying on his back with his fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes were closed, and he hardly moved a muscle.

John sighed. "What could you possibly be doing?"

"Mind palace..." His lips barely moved.

This annoyed John greatly. "Well save that for another time becasue I think I found a case."

"I'm sure your reading capabilities are fine. Read it out loud to me." Sherlock said, refusing to move.

John rolled his eyes and looked back to the laptop screen. "The article says, "Man found brutally murdered in his home. The victim's heart and skin missing, baffling coroners and forensic scientists. The victim's identity has-"

"Boring."

"Boring?"

"Yes, John, boring. Did you not hear me the first time?"

John looked at Sherlock, appalled. "Sherlock, this is the most interesting case I cou-"

"Well find another one because this one is boring. And don't interrupt my time in my mind palace until you find something remotely interesting, if you are capable." Despite his angry tone, Sherlock still hadn't moved.

John sighed and shook his head. "Fine," he said. "Anything for the fantastic Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, and a tea would be nice too."

"Bugger off."

Sherlock smirked devilishly.

Sherlock didn't think that a case was interesesting enough?

Random.

* * *

Sherlock had gone out. To where, John didn't know. He was glad to have the consulting detective out of the flat for a while, anyway. John liked some time to himself recently.

John was, and would always be, angry at Sherlock for faking his death. He had come back from "the grave" only a few months ago. He understood that it was necessary to destroy Moriarty's web, but still. Moriarty was dead. Sherlock said that he had made sure of that before he jumped. He had literally jumped out of a cake that Mycroft brought to Baker Street one day. John didn't know why, but that annoyed the ever-living fuck out of him. But that wasn't the only reason that John was angry at Sherlock.

Sherlock had been acting very childish lately. He didn't want to investigate any cases. He didn't want to eat. He didn't want to sleep. He hardly moved from his position on the sofa. Whenever he talked, he was even more bitter than usual. Not only that, but when he did decide to do something, he wouldn't tell John about it. He would simply put on his coat and scarf and stride out the door. Sometimes he didn't come back for hours. And when he did come back to the flat, he never had anything useful like food or the news of a case with him, oh no.

When he came back, he not only brought home a terrible attitude, but also a horrible smell. The smell was like a comination of rotten eggs, metal, and smoke. It was almost like sulfur. There was also a scent of iron on him, like blood. That in itself was odd enough; where would Sherlock go that smelled so much of sulfur and blood that it rubbed off on him?

But that wasn't the worst of it. The smoky smell was undoubtedly from cigarettes. Sherlock had promised John that he would try to stop now that he was back in London, but apparently he had lied.

John had caught him in the act once. He stood outside the flat, breathing the stuff out. John hadn't seen him holding a cigarette, but that didn't seem important. It was the smoke that intrigued him. But the smoke was not normal. The air around him was not whisps of grey vapor that one would expect, but a huge, billowing cloud of black. He stood outside, breathing it out. But then, a moment later, he gasped it in again at a speed that looked like it caused Sherlock physical damage. The stream of smoke exited and entered Sherlock's mouth in proportions that were...unnatural.

Very unnatural.

If John didn't know any better...he might say...supernatural.

"Sherlock," John called to the peaceful figure on the sofa. "It's happened again."

"What now?" He whined, childishly.

"Another body has been found. Completely skinned with the heart missing. Identical to the one I told you about a yesterday."

"Oh, not that again," Sherlock grumbled.

"Yes, Sherlock, again. It must be the same person...or orginization. What do you think?"

"I think that it is boring."

"Oh come off it Sherlock! This is the first legitimately interesting case we've found in days!"

"You've," Sherlock corrected.

"I've what?"

"The first "legitimately insteresting" case _you've_ found in days. I'm not getting involved in it."

John couldn't believe him. "Sherlock, there are people dying!"

"That's what people DO!"

John froze. He flashed back to the pool. The bomb. The little red lights. The man behind it all. Moriarty had been dead for a little over two years now. But the man still occasionally haunted John's dreams.

John shook Moriarty from his head and looked back to his laptop. He started a search for a new case. Sherlock smirked devilishly.

Sherlock didn't think that two identical cases were interesting enough?

Suspicious.

* * *

John had never really believed in a god. When he was younger he prayed like a good little boy, he went to church with his family. But he never believed any of it. It just didn't click in his mind. Nobody in his family knew, though. He never really found reason to tell them.

They were incredibly religious, and he didn't want to get on his father's bad side. Same reason he never really found it necessary to tell them that he liked both women and men. His parents believed in "homosexuals are possessed by demons" and "all gays are going to hell" and all that shit. He had once heard his mother say that "those bothsexuals are the worst because they could just choose what is right and save themselves from damnation."

The fucking word is bisexuals, you fucking breadcrumb. That was half the reason John got out of that house at his first chance. He just couldn't fucking stand it. He didn't want his sexual orientation to be something else his parents used against him.

Sure, he had had plenty of girlfriends. But none of them stayed for long. They all found something wrong with him within a week or two.

Sometimes it was the limp or sometimes his slightly introverted nature or, his personal favorite, his "freaky collection of jumpers." But the leading cause in loss of girlfriends was his "psycho flatmate."

Sherlock Holmes. It was almost as if Sherlock was purposefuly scaring off the women so...nevermind...John was just...erm...hopeful. John found it funny that the main reason that his girlfriends left was the one person that John truly loved.

Under Sherlock's bitter and snarky nature was someone who was brave, smart, even kind once in a (undoubtedly long and difficult to reach) while. But Sherlock had declared more than once that he was "married to his work." Bastard. At least John tried.

"There's been a third one," John told him the next day.

"Third what?" Sherlock was (yet again) lying in his signature position on the sofa.

"Third identical muder. Victim skinned, heart missing? Ringing any bells in that mind palace of yours?"

"For your information, my mind palce does not have any bells in it to be ringing."

"You. are. impossible," John sighed into his hands. Sometimes he didn't know why he even stayed here. (Sherlock. Sherlock was the reason he stayed here.)

"Yes. I remember the murders...of course. They were boring."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. Sherlock smirked devilishly.

Sherlock didn't think that three identical cases were interesting?

Pattern.

* * *

There was something wrong with Sherlock. John was sure of it. But John didn't know what was off about the sociopath, which was what really bothered him.

Sherlock was out again, doing who knows what. John sat by his bedroom window, looking at the moon. It was a full moon. He rested his head against the glass.

"Nobody can hear me." He whispered. He looked around the room. "Ah, fuck it. Maybe Mycroft can. There's something off about Sherlock. Something I can't explain...but maybe you can. I don't know. I just need help." His breath fogged up the glass as he spoke. It looked so pretty with the light of the moon behind it. John sighed. "I just need help," he whispered again.

John didn't know, but a certain trenchcoated angel had heard him.

And Castiel knew just how to help.


	2. A Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which I introduce Sam, Dean, and Castiel.

"Sam." Dean's voice rang through the old motel room, echoing off the cracked walls as he walked through the door. "I brought food."

"Cool," Sam kept scrolling on his laptop. "What kind'ya get?"

"The kind that is unheathly and full of grease."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Anything that won't give me a blood clot?"

"Don't get your panties in a twist, I brought you your rabbit food."

Dean reached in the white paper bag and pulled out Sam's salad. He sat down and slid the container across the table to his brother. "You find a new hunt?" he asked as he took out his burger.

"Yeah, maybe. Says here that a girl was found early this morning with her head stuck in a deep fryer. The restaurant was way past closing hours and nobody knows how she got in, she didn't work there, and the surveillance cameras blah blah blah blah..."

Dean zoned out because Sam didn't seem interested either anyway. He let Sam's voice be background noise while he enjoyed his burger (bacon and cheese with extra bacon). He wondered where Cas was and what he was doing in Heaven. Shit, could Cas hear him when he thought about the angel? That would make a lot of awkward situations...

"Dean?" Sam's accusatory voice cut through his reverie. "You with me?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said around a bite of burger. He swallowed. "So a girl goes bobbin' for french fries...demon possession maybe? Or something like Gluttony or Famine? Or a witch. God I hate witches."

"We could go to the scene and look for a hex bag," Sam suggested.

"Okie dokie. Put on your fed suit." Dean stood up and threw away his burger wrapper.

Suddenly, he heard the tell-tale rustling of wings that said Castiel had arrived in the room.

"Hello Dean, hello Sam. You called?" His voice was deep and gravelly, as always, with the sense of urgency in it that he saved for when his friends were in danger.

"Umm..no?" Sam replied. Cas knitted his eyebrows together and tilted his head, confused. "We didn't call you. What's going on?"

"I don't know." Cas looked bewildered. Sam and Dean shared a look.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I heard someone call me for help, I assumed it was Dean, but, apparently, I was mistaken."

"Well, if we didn't call you, someone else must've," Sam said."But why'd you think it was Dean, anyway?"

"The soul." Cas sat down on Dean's bed and closed his eyes.

"Wait," Dean said. "When I pray to you, you can see my soul?"

"Yes. And this soul very closely resembles Dean's, now that i'm looking at it."

"How so?" Sam asked. "He is male, first off...he's in his mid-thirties...he even looks like Dean...dark blond hair...but no green eyes...he's not as tall...he is a fighter...an army doctor...returned from...war in Afghanistan...he has seen bad things...surrounded by death...but by choice...danger...so much danger in his life...he has one man that he lives with constantly...they share a...house?...they all it a "flat"...their relationship is completely platonic...he doesn't want it to be...he's worried about this other man...thinks there's something wrong with him...the other man is..." Cas's eyes flew open. "We need to go."

"Come on, Cas. We just found a case here-"

"The girl stepped on her own shoelace and fell into the deep fryer. Nothing supernatural about it. We need to help this man."

"We don't even-" but his protests were pointless. Cas booped them on their foreheads and they flew.

Dean opened eyes he didn't realize were closed. They were standing on the doorstep to some building. The gold number on the black door said "221 B".

The air around him was different. It was lighter and fresher than the hotel room. It was daylight but god  knows what time it was be cause the stupid fog was freakin' everywhere. And it was wet, like it had rained recently. Or maybe it was going to rain. Or maybe it was already raining. Dean couldn't even tell. The weirdest part was the cars were going the wrong way.

"Cas, where are we?"

"London, present day."

"Mind telling us why?"

"Because," he said, knocking on the door of the apartment-building thing, "John Watson needs our help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow that chapter was a lot longer in my head.


	3. Team Free Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which wOrLdS cOlLiDE

"Woah, Cas. Hold on for a second," Dean said.

"What is it, Dean?" the angel asked.

"We just showed up in London. London. It's raining and it's friggin' cold. We don't have our guns, our fed suits, our credit cards, Baby's all alone in a motel parking lot, our IDs-"

Castiel snapped his fingers. Sam and Dean's plaid shirts and jeans turned into black suits and ties. Their IDs could be felt in their pockets, along with their wallets and a knife and gun apiece. The Impala appeared on the street in front of them, parked and stocked with the rest of their weapons.

"Happy, Dean?" Cas asked.

Dean brushed off his clothes and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Thanks, Cas."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "So, where exactly are we again?"

Conveniently enough, the door opened. The man standing in the doorframe was the one Cas had described earlier. He stood at about five feet, six inches tall. He had dirty blond hair, and in the light his eyes looked gunmetal blue or grey. He was wearing a beige sweater (or as he would call it, a "jumper") and dark blue jeans. He looked up at Sam (quite literally, as Sam was around ten inches taller than him) and asked, "Can I help you?"

Castiel said, "Is this the residence of John Watson?"

John looked at Castiel almost suspiciously. "Yes...and you are?"

"This is Dean Winchester," Castiel said, gesturing to him. "This is Sam Winchester, his brother," he said, pointing to Sam, who awkwardly waved like the moose he was. "And I am Castiel."

"Castiel..." John replied, looking for a last name. Cas froze. He knew better than to say that he was an angel of the Lord. But a last name? He looked, wide-eyed at Dean for help.

"Winchester," Dean said quickly. "Castiel Winchester. He's our...cousin..."

"Are you here for a case?" John asked.

"Uh..." Sam scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. We're here for...a case..."

None of their accents were from anywhere in the United Kingdom, but they were American. John didn't remember agreeing to a case, but he also didn't want them to stand outside in the near-drizzling weather. "Well, come in then." John moved out of the doorway and beckoned for them to follow him up the stairs.

Sam entered the house first. Castiel walked in next, followed by Dean. Sam took after John, his heavy footfalls on the staris echoing around the silent flat.

When Dean knew John was out of earshot, he turned to Cas. "Why'dya use our real names? We've got IDs for a reason," he said.

"Lying only leads to more lies, which leads to anger and unforgiveness. I thought you would know that by now."

"What are we gonna say?"

"That I am an angel who is here to answer his prayers."

"You want us to tell the truth?"

"Precisely." And with that, Cas teleported himself up the stairs, leaving Dean at the bottom.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. "You are so lucky I love you," he whispered under his breath. He started his trek up the stairs.

"Fancy a cuppa?" John asked them when Dean walked into the sitting room.

 _'The fuck is he talking about?'_ Dean thought. "Uh...no, I'll pass," Dean didn't want whatever a "cuppa" was. Sounded like a stupid British monster. Dean flopped down on the couch.

"No, thank you," Sam said, awkwardly standing and looking around the flat.

"Do you have any coffee?" Cas asked.

"Yes, actually. I'll make you a cup."

"Thank you," Cas asked. He sat down on the couch next to Dean, leaving an empty chair for Sam. But Sam wasn't taking the chair anyway. He was looking at all the cool stuff in the flat.

"So how'd you get here from America so quickly?" John asked as he bustled about, preparing tea.

"How could you tell?" Dean asked.

"It doesn't exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. Your accents, for one. And your clothes aren't damp, so you couldn't have been here for long, as it's been raining for the past few hours. 'Course, you could have been inside or in a car, but your stances outside said that you had been standing or walking." John crossed to the sitting room, two steaming mugs in his hands. He handed the coffee-filled one to Cas, who nodded in thanks. "So how'd you get here?"

Dean looked uncertainly at Cas, but Cas didn't see him. He was looking at John intently. "I am an angel of the Lord."

John nearly choked on his tea. "You're what?"

"I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord," he repeated, casually sipping his coffee.

"Why should I believe that?" John asked, exasperated.

"Because I heard you praying." John was still looking at Cas in bewilderment.

"I think you have the wrong person. I don't pray."

Castiel sighed and closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was John's. "There's something off about Sherlock. Something I can't explain...but maybe you can. I don't know. I just need help. I just need help." Castiel opened his eyes to see John's awestruck expression.

"So if you're an angel...how come you don't have wings?" John asked.

(Dean could have sworn he heard Sam say, "Omigod John, you can't just ask angels why they don't have wings.")

Castiel replied, "My true form is usually too much for humans. The last human who saw me in my true form had her eyes burned out by it and was later stabbed."

"Is this a real human skull?" Sam interrupted from the fireplace.

"It's not mine," John replied quickly. "It's Sherlock's."

"Why do you have a human skull?" Dean asked. "That's like one of the most suspicious things you could have lying around."

"When Sherlock thinks he's alone he talks to it." Sam looked at John suspiciously.

"Talks to it? What does he say?" John turned to Sam. While John wasn't looking, Dean poured some holy water in his tea.

"I don't know. He only ever speaks to it in German," John replied.

Sam sighed and put the skull back on the hearth. John turned back to Dean, taking a sip of his tea, confirming that he was not a demon. He noticed Castiel was gone. "Where'd the angel go?"

"Lego land," Dean replied sarcastically.

"You said that Sherlock was acting differently," Sam said."How?"

"He's very irritable. More so than usual. And he'll go days without saying anything. That wouldn't be so strange, but he turned down a very interesting triple-murder."

"There's been a triple murder?" Dean asked. "Where?"

""Where?"?"

"We should go check it out," Sam said.

"Don't bother trying. they happened days ago," John said.

"And you haven't done anything when you could have been? People have died!" John looked sadly at his hands. "I said that same thing about this case to Sherlock. You know what he said?"

"What?"

""That's what people do.""

Dean and Sam looked at each other.

This could be more difficult than they thought.


	4. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Dean find out useful things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely reviewer, XxVeronikaTheFallenxX.

"We're back," Dean called as he walked into the flat. Sam ducked through the door behind him. Dean started his trek up the stairs. He really hated stairs.

"Tea?" John asked from the kitchen.

"Nah," replied Dean.

"No thanks," said Sam.

"Did Sherlock come by while we were gone?" Dean asked.

"No, he hasn't been in the flat since before you two first got here."

"Not suspicious at all," Dean mumbled sarcastically.

"What'd you get from the victims's families?" John asked as Sam and Dean entered the sitting room.

"We would totally tell you if they had families," Dean said. "But they didn't. So we had to find some of their friends."

"We didn't learn much that we didn't already know," Sam said, "but useful stuff. I think we found some common threads." Sam took out folders of information on the victims. He opened each of them and laid them down side by side. There was a headshot of each of the victims, their basic information, and some other stuff that Dean would make Sam read. "So here are the vics," Sam said, pointing to each of them in turn. "Oliver Robinson, Justin Philips, and Hugo Thompson. All male. All unmarried, no children. All in their thirties. All with military backgrounds. In fact, all of them served in Afghanistan. And their deaths were identical. All visible skin was missing from the bodies, and their hearts were missing."

"See usually," Dean said, "when the heart is missing, it's a werewolf. That's what I thought it was at first, but the bodies had no claw or teeth marks. So I thought, "Could've been someone who needed human hearts for a sacrifice." But that couldn't have been right 'cause-"

"Because get this," Sam interrupted. "The hearts weren't clawed out or cut out. The skin around where the heart belongs was burnt. So whatever killed them burned the hearts out of them."

John shivered. The pool. The bomb. The little red dots. Moriarty. _"I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."_

John shook his head clear.

"Somethin' wrong?" Dean asked him.

"No, no," John replied. "It's not important."

"Anything," Dean said. "anything could be useful. No matter how pointless it seems."

John sighed. "I think it, whatever it is, is after me."

"How so?" Sam asked.

John took a deep breath. "First of all, I fit the pattern. Male, unmarried, no children, and I'm in my thirties. I even served in Afghanistan."

Dean and Sam shared a look.

"What's the second thing?" Sam asked suspiciously.

John hesitated. "This is going to sound crazy..." he sighed.

"We're used to crazy," Dean said.

"There was this man," John began. "His name was Moriarty. James Moriarty. He was Sherlock's arch nemesis. Called himself a "consulting criminal." If you wanted someone dead, he would find a way to do it. But he didn't just kill people, he sort of...he made it a kind of game between him and Sherlock. 'The Great Game' he called it. Sherlock would always solve the crimes, but Moriarty always got away with it, usually through threats and blackmail. He was just as clever as Sherlock. He convinced the whole world to believe that Sherlock was fake, that Moriarty was fake. He convinced everyone that he was Richard Brook, an actor that Sherlock had hired. But that was all part of the act. Moriarty was real."

"So what's this got to do with the case?" Dean asked.

"Moriarty," John said, "Moriarty once said to Sherlock, "I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." And once, when he thought someone was lying to him, he said, "I will find you...and I will skin you.""

Sam looked nervously at Dean. "So you think Moriarty is behind all of this?" Sam asked.

John sighed. "I do but..."

"But?" Dean asked.

"Moriarty's dead."

"You sure about that?" Dean asked.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm sure," John answered.

"How did he die?" Sam asked.

"Stuck a gun down his throat. Sherlock saw it happen. Blood pouring out of his skull. His body was found on the roof where he shot himself."

"Hold up," Dean said. "Sherlock saw it happen? How?"

"Moriarty got Sherlock to come to the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He said that if Sherlock didn't jump off and die, he would get his snipers to shoot me, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade. The only ways we would live were if Sherlock fell and died or Moriarty called them off. So he shot himself so Sherlock had no choice."

"So how are you still alive?" Dean asked.

"Sherlock jumped. But the whole thing was orchestrated so Sherlock would survive. He knew Moariarty's plan all along. Then he left London to destroy the rest of "Moriarty's Web." He says he succeeded, but I wouldn't know since he let me think he was dead."

"That's just low," Dean sighed. "So this Moriarty guy is dead. But people are dying the way he described. Could be a vengeful spirit."

"His death seems violent enough for him to become a ghost," Sam said.

"When did he die?" Dean asked.

"Two or three years ago," John answered.

"That's definitely enough time," Dean said. "Where was he buried?"

"He was cremated," John said.

"Just perfect," Dean sighed. "Are there any possessions of his that may have his DNA on them still around?" Sam asked.

"Not that I know of," John said.

"Hold on a sec," Dean said. He closed his eyes. "Dear Cas, we could use some of your angel-mojo right now. So please come and help us...amen."

"Hello Dean," Castiel said, appearing behind Dean. John looked scared.

"Could you take a look and see if you can find any objects with the DNA of one James Moriarty?"

"Certainly," Castiel said, and he dissapeared with the sound of flapping wings.

"Does he always talk that little?" John asked.

"He doesn't stay to chat," Dean said. "He's all about business."

Castiel re-appeared. "I could not find any of James Moriarty's possessions. All of them were burned after he died."

"Awesome," Dean sighed.

"But there is one place that has his DNA," Castiel finished.

"Where's that?" Sam asked.

"The roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital." 

"So we gotta burn a roof with the guy's blood on it?" Dean asked.

"That is the only place with his DNA," Cas answered.

"Awesome," Dean said sarcastically.

"So we'll wait till it's a bit darker and salt and burn it," Sam said.

Dean sighed, looking at Cas. "What are we gonna do till then?"

"Sit quietly and consume copious amounts of alcohol?" Cas suggested.

Dean chuckled dryly. "As fun as that sounds, Cas, we should probably do a little more research on Moriarty."

Cas touched his temple, tuning in to Angel Radio. "I'm sorry, Dean. I have business in Heaven. I should be back by sundown."

"See ya," Dean replied sadly. Castiel disapeared in a flutter of wings.

 


	5. John Knows What Sherlock Did In The Dark (Light 'em Up)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out useful things about Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is named after that popular Fall Out Boy song.

"So," John said, trying to find away to make the last hour go by. "Where did you get the information on the victims?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sam replied, flipping through the pages. "He gave us these folders and got a girl, Molly I think, to show us the bodies. And Dean ate a bunch of his doughnuts."

"Hey, the guy offered them," Dean said, looking up from the gun he was cleaning. "And he sure had enough of them. And he was eating a lolipop when we left. He's got a major sweet tooth."

"That's Lestrade all right," John said. "But I didn't know he was working on this case. I don't think it's really his division."

"He said that this case was special," Sam said, "even more so since we're here about it."

"Hmm..." John sighed. He wondered where Sherlock was. Dean was right, it was suspicious that he had been gone this long.

"Think it's dark enough for us to go yet?" Dean asked Sam.

"Yeah," Sam said, standing. "Let's go."

John tried to stand up, but Dean held up his hand. "Imma stop you right there."

"Can't I come too?" John asked.

"Nope," Dean said, starting towards the stairs.

"But you need me!" John started after him.

"What we don't need is someone in our way," Dean said. "You'll be in too much danger."

"You don't know where St. Bart's is." John replied.

"I'm sure we'll figure it out."

"Not without a cabbie."

Dean stopped. The thought of driving in a car besides the Impala seemed to emotionally unstabalize him. After a moment of thought he finally said, "Fine. But don't blame me if you get hurt," and he practically stopmed down the stairs.

"Is he always like that?" John asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. "He only wants to protect you."

"I've forgotten what protection was, living with Sherlock." John desended the stairs, Sam following noisily.

Once outside, Led Zepplin could be heard blasting from the speakers. Sam opened the passanger seat door as John climbed into the back.

"Don't you think it's a bit late for that?" he said, gesturing towards the radio.

"Tell 'im the rules, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes, sighing resignedly. "Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

"And don't you forget it." Dean revved the engine and cranked up "Ramble On" as he drove down the road

* * *

"So," Dean said as they climbed the stairs to the roof. "We find the guy's blood, salt and burn,go home, and hope the attacks stop."

"You don't sound very sure of yourself," John commented.

Dean smiled sadly. "When am I ever." He opened the door to the roof and stepped out. "God it is cold out here!" He pulled his jacket tighter around him as the wind whipped it behind him.

John walked on the roof, unfazed by the weather. "Let's find the blood and burn it."

After a few minutes of searching, Sam discovered a large brownish-red spot on the concrete roof. "I think it's over here, guys!" he called.

Dean approached with the gasoline. "Let's torch this." He squrited the gasoline on the blood spot, then covered it with salt. He struck a match, but the wind blew it out. So he lit an other one, getting his giant moose brother to block the wind. He dropped the match onto the gas-and-salt-covered bloodstain. Flames errupted on the ground.

"Well," Dean said. "As fun as that wasn't, we should probably get you home, John."

John looked at the smoke rising from the fire. He didn't hear Dean.

"John, you with us? John?"

"Oh, sorry," John said. "I was just thinking about Sherlock."

"Of course you were," Dean mumbled under his breath.

"What about him?" Sam asked as they let the wind extinguish the fire.

"He started smoking again, even though he promised he would stop."

"Have you tried taking his cigarettes away?" Sam asked.

"Doesn't help," John says. "He gets them somewhere else. But I'm worried about him."

"Why?" Dean asked as they walked towards the door. "The smoke doesn't look like cigarette smoke. It's black. Almost looks like a cloud."

Dean's hand stopped on the door handle. "Say that again."

"The smoke is black and almost looks like a cloud?"

Dean and Sam shared a panicked look. Dean wrenched the door open and bolted down the stairs, Sam always a step behind him.

"What's the hurry?" John asked as he raced behind them.

"That ain't cigarette smoke, buddy."

"What is it then?"

"A demon." Sam threw open the doors and they all ran to the Impala.

"A demon?" John repeated incredulously from the backseat.

"Yup." Dean slammed the keys into the ignition and revved the car to life.

"What is happening to me?" John whispered. "First an angel shows up in my flat and two hunters decide to burn a roof and now they're telling me my best friend is a demon?"

"If it's any consolation, we're sorry," Dean said, racing towards 221B.

"Just breathe, John," Sam said soothingly.

"I'm trying."

"Do you know if Sherlock is home?" Dean asked.

"I don't think so."

"Perfect." Dean parked outside 221B, ripped out his keys, and ran to the door. John and Sam followed him, and John quickly unlocked the doors. They stomped up the stairs, Dean shouting instructions at Sam. "You draw a devil's trap on the celing, I'll get some holy water, and John, you-"

Dean couldn't finish his sentence because he was slammed against the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, but he was tossed to the other side of the room and pinned against the wall.

John tried to run, somewhere, anywhere, but he was rooted to the spot he stood in. He franitcally looked around the room, trying to ask Sam and Dean what to do and what was doing this to them, but his voice was gone. Then he heard someone behind him.

"Hello, John." The silky baritone voice was usually so welcome, but now it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, John."

John suddenly spun araound and saw him. Sherlock. Right in front of him. He was smiling evily as he said, "I've been waiting for you, darling."

And his eyes turned black. 


	6. It's Where My Demons Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is a demon and John is confused.

Sherlock's eyes were pitch black. He smiled wickedly at John and purred, "Why so quiet? Scared?" He blinked, and his eyes turned back to their striking greenish blue.

"I...n-not scaredofyou," John tried to reply.

Sherlock smirked. "I find that rather hard to believe."

"Who are you?" Dean asked from where he was telekinetically pushed against the wall.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the adress is 221B Baker Street," he replied, winking at John. "But you knew that already."

"What's your real name, you black-eyed son of a bitch?"

"Been called a lot of different things during my time here on earth," the demon said, striding towards Dean. "But John here knows me as," he spun dramatically "Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" John repeated.

"I just said that John, do keep up."

"Moriarty only died a few years ago," Sam said. "How did you become a demon so quickly?"

"Well if you want to know all about Hell, Sammy, I suggest you ask your brother. He was there for forty years, after all." Moriarty smirked at both the Winchesters before continuing in Sherlock's silky baritone voice. "Alistair really enjoyed torturing me, said I'd make a great demon. Your friend Lucifer stopped by one day and decided to upgrade me from ordinary tortured soul to black-eyed demon. He said normally Alistair torures a soul until there's no humanity left, but there was hardly any in me to begin with.

"Lucifer says hi, by the way, Sam. He misses you. He wants you to "come back down and play" to put it in his own words. Oh, and Adam says if he somehow brings himself back he'll dress up as a clown and follow you everywhere."

Sam's eyes widedned in horror.

"But you two are definitely not the reason I came back. In fact, I don't see why I don't just kill you on the spot."

"We always find a way to come back," Dean replied with a smile.

"Yes, I suppose so," the demon said. "I could knock you unconsious."

"Why waste your energy?" Dean asked.

"Good answer," Moriarty said. "And I want you to watch."

"Watch what?" Sam asked nervously.

"John being brutally murdered by his best friend."

"M-me?" John managed to stutter. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," the demon sneered. "Which is why it'll be so fun to make you taste your own intestines."

John's face grew even paler. "But Sherlock..."

"You say that like I want Sherlock to be happy, when really I crave the oppisite." The demon smirked. "See that's what's so fun about possessing him. He'll be the one ripping out your insides and watching the life leave your eyes. I'll just be helping him." Moriarty sighed. "It's a damn shame though. He really likes you."

"What?" John gasped. "I can see all the corners of his freaky little brain. Every thought, every memory, especially the ones about you. In his mind palace, he has an entire wing dedicated to John Hamish Watson. All good things, I promise, but let's just say if you saw some of these, oh, you'd be _blushing_."

John shook his head, "You're lying."

"Talk to him yourself."

The demon blinked, and all the malice was gone from his eyes. Sherlock was in control of his body once again. "John," he said, voice close to a whisper. "I wish it wasn't like this."

"Me too," John said, "but it is."

"I'm so, so sorry John."

"I know."

_'Don't you dare start crying, don't you dare start crying don't you-'_

Suddenly, John's back was against the wall and Sherlock was kissing him like there was no tomorrow (which seemed like the case for John). Sherlock's hands cradled John's face as their lips clashed. He pulled away from John, and a tear slid down his cheek. "I love you," he said.

John wiped the tear away. "I love you, too." Then Sherlock's eyes became black again. The demon smiled.

"Now that _that's_ over, I've got an army doctor to kill."

"Not if I've got something to say about it!"

A figure appeared behind Moriarty. He brought back his hand and slapped the demon across the face so hard he hit the opposite wall.

John was already in shock about a bloody _demon_ trying to kill him and bloody _Sherlock_  kissing him, but this took shock to a whole new level.

"Lestrade?


	7. Miss Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade may or may not actually be Lestrade.

"Lestrade?" John asked, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"

"Savin' your sorry arses," Lestrade answered. He turned back to the demon as he stood up. Lestrade snapped his fingers, and a devil's trap appeared on the floor around the demon.

"You," Moriarty said to Lestrade. "You're alive?"

"Yup," Lestrade said. "You betchya."

"I don't like your new vessel," the demon said. "Gold looks better on you than silver."

Lestrade smiled and shrugged. "New year new me. And I'm operating incognito at the moment."

"Wait, what?" Sam asked from the corner. "Who are you?"

Lestrade snapped his fingers, and a strip of purple duct tape appeared over Sam's mouth.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But for now," Lestrade turned to Sherlock again. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"

"Oh, just smite me if you wanna get rid of me," the demon said, rolling his eyes. "Save yourself time."

"Nah, your meatsuit's too pretty. As I was saying, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adersarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabolica."

The demon fell to his knees and gripped his raven curls in tight fists. He began to whimper quietly as Lestrade spoke again.

"Ergo, draco maledicte, ecclasiam tuam securi tibi facias, libertate sevire, te regamus, audio nos, you son of a bitch."

Sherlock's head snapped back as his eyes squeezed shut. A long, black, billowing cloud burst from his mouth as he screamed. John looked in horror as the smoke flew out the window and into the night.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, running to him. He caught Sherlock before he fell, lying him on the ground. John knelt next to Sherlock. running his fingers through the black hair.

"J-John...it was s-so dark...Moriarty...he s-saw into m-my head..." Sherlock whispered as John soothed him. "My m-mind palace...is s-so...dark..."

"Shhh, it's okay Sherlock, you're okay. He's gone now. He won't come back. He's never coming back again."

"Hate to break up this nice little reunion," Lestrade said, "but you should never make promises you can't keep."

John looked up at Lestrade, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"It's not always as easy as 'never going back, the past is in the past.'"

"I don't understand..."

"Allow me to demonstrate!" Lestrade snapped, and Sam appeared next to him shirtless.

"What the Hell?" he protested indignantly through the duct tape.

"Sammy here got this little 'no demons allowed' sign tattooed onto him a while back," he said, gesturing to the anti-possession tattoo on Sam's chest. "I recommend that you two get some if you're really serious about making Moriar-douche stay away."

Sam ripped the duct tape off his mouth and pushed Lestrade against the wall with his forearm.

"Oh, I love it when you take control like that," Lestrade whispered, winking. "Makes my meatsuit all gooey."

"Who are you? Why did Moriarty know who you are?" he demanded, pushing Lestrade up the wall so their eyes were level. "Why was he surprised you were alive?"

Lestrade smiled mischievously at Sam. Then his short silver hair grew long and honey-colored. His clothes changed from a black federal suit to a green jacket, brown shirt, and blue jeans. His eyes turned from icy grey to whiskey gold. Sam's eyes widened as he dropped him to the ground.

"Gabriel?" he whispered in disbelief.

The archangel wiggled his eyebrows. "Didjya miss me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is the actual funnest character to write.


	8. Sabriel, Johnlock, and Destiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ships set sail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely reviewer, warriorof42.

"Miss me?" Gabriel said.

"How did you-" John began.

"Not important." Gabriel snapped his fingers, and John and Sherlock disappeared. A second later, there was a loud thump from what they guessed was Sherlock's room as they landed on the floor there.

"Anyway," Gabriel said. "Wassup, Sammich?"

"You're-you're alive?" Sam finally managed to stutter.

"Yup," Gabriel answered. "I was just busy doin' some-"

He was cut off by Sam's lips on his. He didn't object, but ran his fingers through Sam's long hair as Sam picked him up so that they were the same height. Sam's skin was warm, despite him still being shirtless, and Gabriel wrapped his legs around the base of Sam's back and-

Dean coughed awkwardly, which totally ruined the moment. "Uh, Sam, care to explain?"

Sam blushed and set Gabriel back on the ground. "We're…together."

"When did this even happen?"

"Well," Gabriel said. "I guess you could say it happened in the… _heat of the moment_."

"Omigod, Gabe, really?" Sam said, turning to him.

Gabriel shrugged. "Desperate times call for hilarious puns."

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling. "You're terrible."

"But you love me." Gabriel tilted his head and smiled.

"I know," Sam said, leaning in for another kiss.

But once again, Dean ruined it. "Care to _explain_?" he practically yelled.

"Remember the Mystery Spot?" Gabriel said.

"Uh, yes?" Dean said, but it came out more like a question than an answer.

"Well, Sammoose here got bored of you on a lot of those Tuesdays, ya know? You don't remember it, but he left you in the motel alone sometimes and hung out with me. Well, if "hang out" means passionately make out and have totally-"

"Alright alright I get it!" Dean said, horrified. He turned to Sam. "Gabriel? Really?"

"Yup." They answered at the same time.

Dean stared, wide-eyed. "He's an Archangel of God!"

"Oh, don't pretend you're so innocent," Sam said sassily.

"What?" Dean replied, brow furrowed. "I never did anything with him!"

"Not me, doofus," Gabriel said. "My little bro, Cassie."

Dean was speechless. "I…uh…we never…not yet anyway…wait, but, how did you…?"

"Dean," Sam said, eyebrows raised, "you literally could not be more obvious."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes and sighed, exasperated. "First off, the way you look at him. And he looks right back at you the same way."

"Is eye contact now a crime?"

Sam and Gabriel smiled and shook their heads at each other. "He just doesn't learn, does he?" Gabriel said.

"He needs serious help." Sam raised his eyebrows at Gabriel.

"I like the way you think, Sammy," Gabriel said, winking. He snapped, and Castiel appeared next to Dean.

"Uh, hello Dean." Castiel said.

Sam and Gabriel didn't speak; they just looked expectantly at Dean.

"This is awkward," Castiel muttered.

"Have fun, Dean!" Gabriel snapped, and he and Sam disappeared.

* * *

"Not important." The no-longer-Lestrade snapped his fingers, and John and Sherlock were lifted into the air and landed somewhere dark with a loud thump.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" John asked nobody in particular. Then he noticed the absence of Sherlock's body on the ground next to him.

He stopped for a second to take in his surroundings. He was somewhere small, dark, and there were piles of what seemed to be clothes all around him. He could locate three walls around him when he spread out his arms. He crawled forward and found what must have been the door. He pushed it, but it seemed to locked. He knocked on it and called, "Sherlock? You there?"

"John?" he heard Sherlock call back.

"Where are you?"

"Over here," he replied. "I'm in the closet!"

"I'll help you out!" Sherlock answered, and John heard him start to unlock the door.

"Thank you," he said, standing. Sherlock didn't reply, but opened the door. _Maybe he didn't hear you,_ John thought. "Thank you for helping me come out of the closet..."

John's voice faltered and fell as he reached the end of his sentence. He realized the phrasing he used and felt heat creep up his neck and he blushed. "I...I mean, uh, this...this closet I was stuck in...I mean, uh.."

He scratched the back of his neck and avoided Sherlock's gaze.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, concerned.

"Yeah, yeah," John replied noncommittally. "I just...uh..."

"No, there's something on your mind, a secret. A secret you're keeping from me, possibly because it is about me or is extremely personal."

John looked more closely at his shoes.

Sherlock took a step closer and leaned down so his face was level with John's. "It's both, isn't it? Something personal and about me."

John shuddered. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips. They were so close. John didn't know how much longer he could last like this.

"What do you want to tell me?" Sherlock asked.

John didn't reply. His throat didn't seem to work anymore.

"John, look at me." He did, and when he saw the look in Sherlock's eyes, he couldn't help himself any more.

He grabbed Sherlock's head and pulled it close so their lips clashed. It sure wasn't soft or anything like John would've thought, but it said the words that John couldn't quite find.

John pulled away, and Sherlock let out a small whine of protest, which surprised John.

"I'm sorry, I just-" He was cut off by Sherlock's lips on his.

He pulled back after a second. "You talk too much," Sherlock mumbled against John's lips. His voice was at least eight octaves lower than usual, sending a shiver down John's spine.

John kissed him again, for a long time. Sherlock's hands cupped John's face as John's fingers ran through Sherlock's beautiful black curls. Sherlock tasted like blood and sulfur and something dark, but to John, it almost seemed to fit him. Sherlock wasn't like everyone else. He went to crime scenes the way other people would go to the park or cinemas. His heart rate increased at the sight of a bloody body, but from the thrill of the chase, not fear. He could pick a person apart and put them together like a puzzle, while others could hardly even tell the difference between truth and a lie.

So no, he didn't taste like bubblegum lip gloss and flowery perfume, but those days were over in John's mind. If Sherlock was blood and sulfur, John knew he would grow to love it.

* * *

"Uh, hello Dean." Castiel said.

Sam and Gabriel didn't speak; they just looked expectantly at Dean.

"This is awkward," Castiel muttered.

"Have fun, Dean!" Gabriel snapped, and he and Sam disappeared.

"Gabriel's alive?" Castiel asked Dean.

"Uh, yeah...and apparently he's been with Sam for a long time. They've been dating each other since before I went to Hell."

"Oh," Castiel said. "You...didn't know that they were in a relationship?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You did?"

Castiel blushed. "I may have seen a...well, an intimate dream Sam once had...about Gabriel..."

"Wow," Dean said. "That is not awkward at all."

"It actually was very embarrassing, Dean," Castiel replied, not understanding Dean's sarcasm. Dean sighed.

Castiel looked at him, confused. "What did Gabriel mean when he said "Have fun"?"

"Uh..." Dean didn't know what to say. "I...I don't know, Cas."

"Are you lying, Dean?"

Dean looked away. "Um, why would I lie to you, Cas?"

"Because there is something you don't want me to know."

Dean ran his fingers through his hair and paced to the wall. "I don't know, man. Maybe Gabriel's just-"

Castiel appeared in front of Dean, stopping him from walking any further. He stared Dean directly in the eyes. "Tell me the truth, Dean. The whole truth."

Dean gulped. He rememberedall the times he thought about telling Cas his true feelings. It seemed so simple when Cas wasn't around but now, faced with the situation, he had no idea what to do.

"Tell me." Castiel demanded again.

There were too many feelings, and ones that Dean wasn't accustomed to. Fear-this was far scarier than any vamp or djinn or witch or any other evil son of a bitch out there. This was Castiel. And the prospect of happiness-if he did go through with this, it could work out very well. But the oddest emotion was love. He had never felt it like this before like this. Lust and desire? Sure, he got those all the time. But this was actual affection for an other human (well, not really) who was right there in front of him, literally. If he could only just...no...

"Dean talk to me, dammit!" Dean was taken aback by Castiel's words. That was something he would usually say. It sounded so wrong coming from Castiel's mouth.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Castiel said, shaking his head.

_'Seriously? What the hell is-'_

Castiel was kissing him. His hands cupped Dean's face, his fingers lightly tracing his jawline. Dean's eyes were wide open in shock as Castiel pulled away. "Is that what you wanted to say, Dean?"

Dean couldn't speak. Castiel, actual angel of the Lord Castiel, kissed him. He needed more.

He grabbed Cas by the lapels of his trench coat and shoved him against the wall. He roughly pushed his lips against Castiel's. Dean could feel Cas smile against him as he deepened the kiss, ruffling Dean's hair with his hair as-

Someone started slowly clapping behind Castiel and Dean. Dean turned around to see (who else?) Sam and Gabriel, sitting on the sofa and cheering.

"Bravo!" Sam called, smiling.

"Encore! Encore!" Gabriel applauded, and the two gave Dean and Castiel a standing ovation.

"Oh shut your piehole." It was meant to come across as serious, but he was too happy about kissing Castiel to be serious about anything.

"Well it took you two long enough to get it together," Gabriel said. 

 

"Where are Sherlock and John? Castiel asked.

"Oh," Gabriel said. "I put them in Sherlock's room, cleverly and strategically placing John in the closet so only Sherlock could get him out."

At the same time, Dean laughed, Sam said, "You are the actual worst, you know that?" and Castiel said, "I did not understand that reference."

Dean smiled at Castiel, saying, "I love it when you say adorable things like that."

Gabriel smiled at Sam saying, "But I am hilarious."

Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "What did I say that you found worthy of adoration?"

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Only sometimes."

Dean chuckled. "Never mind, Cas."

Gabriel snickered. "But you love me all the time."

Three couples, two rooms, one flat. Nothing could be more perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one more chapter left, and just a warning, it's the actual weirdest ending I have ever thought of.


	9. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fanfiction ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been real, it's been fun, it's been real fun. Thank you so much to thefrailtyofgenius, xXVeronikaTheFallenXx, FaithTheKitty, ankasienka, and 11 guests for leaving kudos! This chapter is dedicated to the lovely reviewer, GuiltyBystanders. Apologizing in advance, this chapter gets insane at the end. I don't know what I was thinking...it just came to me in the...heat of the moment...

Sam woke up first the next morning. He was lying on the sofa, Gabriel's back snuggling comfortably into his chest. A large black blanket sat on top of them, shielding them from the London cold that seeped through the windows. He looked out the windows, seeing (surprise surprise) fog surrounding them. He determined it to be some time between nine and ten o'clock. He ran his fingers through his boyfriend's golden hair, gently stirring him into consciousness.

"Gabe," he purred. "C'mon Gabriel wake up."

The archangel groaned in reply and drew the blanket closer around him and Sam.

"Angels don't need to sleep," Sam said, softly stroking Gabriel's cheek with his fingers.

"Just cuz I don't have to don't mean I don't want to," Gabriel mumbled, turning his head and opening an eye to glare at Sam.

"C'mon Gabe, get up."

"Five more minutes..." Gabriel's eyes closed as he sank back into his original position.

Sam raised his eyebrows at the back of Gabriel's head. "We could make Nutella waffles," Sam whispered.

Gabriel practically jumped off the couch. "DID SOMEONE SAY _NUTELLA_?" he asked obnoxiously loudly.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes Gabe. I said the word 'Nutella,' calm down. It's just a-"

Gabriel wasn't listening anymore, though. He was already ripping the golden foil off the top of a jar he had just conjured out of thin air, spoon in hand. "I'm sorry, did you say 'it's just a' in the presence of my holy Nutella?"

"Since when is your jar of hazelnut spread considered holy?"

"Um, since I'm an angel and everything I make appear is automatically holy."

"Whatever," Sam said, standing. "I'm gonna put on a kettle of tea for the British guys. And can you conjure up a waffle maker and some mix? I don't think they have any," he said, referring to the consulting detective and his blogger.

"Fine," Gabriel said, snapping his fingers. A silver bowl appeared on the counter, along with boxed waffle mix, water, oil, and a box of eggs.

"Would it really be that hard to make actual waffle mix?" Sam asked, turning on the electric kettle.

"I ain't gonna waste my angel mojo on something it would take like three seconds to do," Gabriel said.

"You do that all the time!"

"Well yeah but that's for boring stuff like walking or flipping light switches. I actually like making waffles."

Sam sighed. "Fine, we'll make them manually." He noticed he had Nutella on his right cheek. "Gabe, you got chocolate on your face," he said.

Gabriel stuck out his tongue, trying to reach the glob of Nutella. But alas, his tongue was too small, and Sam sighed exasperatedly.

"Here, I'll get it." He crossed to where Gabriel stood. Gabriel smirked as Sam kissed the Nutella off his face. He smiled pulled Sam into another sweet kiss.

If some of the waffles were a little burned from overcooking, Sam and Gabriel only had each other to blame.

* * *

Castiel never fell asleep, he only pretended to so that Dean didn't know that the angel was watching him sleep. Dean looked happy when he slept. All the loss and guilt that usually showed on his features were washed away, replaced by a neutral yet beautiful look of joy. Dean never looked that happy when he was conscious. Except when he was with Castiel or his brother. He seemed happy then.

Just as Castiel started to ask himself why Dean looked happy around him, the green-eyed man stirred in his sleep. His eyes groggily opened as he ran his hand through his hair.

"You watchin' me sleep, Cas?" he grumbled, his voice raspy from sleep.

"No," Castiel answered quickly. "Yes..."

Dean sighed, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Whatever floats your boat, I guess." He sat up and stretched his back. "What now?" he asked Castiel.

"What do you mean?" Castiel replied.

"The demon's gone," Dean said. "So why not just go back to America?"

"I suppose we could do that," Castiel said, standing. "We should go down stairs and collect your brother, and then we will return home." Dean smiled sadly and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah...home..."

"Is there something wrong, Dean?" Castiel asked.

"No, nothing important." Dean stood, crossing to the door. "Let's just go and-"

"No Dean," Cas said. "Tell me the truth."

Dean sighed. He was never good with emotions or feelings or any of that crap. He wasn't even sure specifically he was upset about. Honestly, there were so many things wrong, he didn't even know where to start.

"The truth?" Dean shook his head. "The truth is I have no idea what's even going on in my life. Everything I touch gets broken. Anyone who even talks to me could die and it would be all my fault. And I'm scared, man. I just don't know what I'm doing at all anymore..."

Castiel walked over to him and pulled him into a hug. "It's alright Dean...you'll be okay...I'm here for you...I'll protect you."

Dean wrapped his arms tightly around his angel. Castiel's strong hold on him was the only comfort he needed, and he smiled into Cas's shoulder. "Thanks, man. I love you."

"I love you too," Castiel said, also grinning. He gave Dean a kiss on the cheek. They stood like that for a while, just basking in each other's warmth, when they smelled something burning downstairs.

"C'mon Cas, let's see what's going on."

"Alright, Dean." They pulled apart, looking into each other's eyes (Gabriel was right, they do that a lot.)

Dean opened the door and walked downstairs to the kitchen, where he overheard Sam talking to Gabriel.

"You never gave me my shirt back, by the way."

"You don't need it."

"C'mon Gabe, it's cold here."

"I'm keeping you warm enough..."

"What's burning?" Dean asked, striding into the kitchen as if he didn't just see his brother embarrassedly scamper out of Gabriel's arms.

"Burning?" Sam asked innocently, sniffing the air. He noticed the smell and ran to a waffle maker on the other side of the kitchen. "Shoot, the waffles!"

"MY HOLY NUTELLA WAFFLES!" Gabriel yelled dramatically. 

"They always end up burned. Gabe, we wouldn't have this problem if you just summoned them instead of having me cook them!"

"I don't think we'd have this problem if you stopped complaining and focused on the waffles!"

"I don't think you'd have this problem if you stopped making out and started making food," Dean said. Both his brother and the archangel shot him a bitchface, which shut him up.

"Good morning Sam. Good morning Gabriel," Castiel said, strolling into the kitchen. "You have prepared a breakfast?"

"Uh, kinda," Sam said. "Some of it is kinda burned but it's edible."

"Great, I'm starving," Dean said, grabbing a waffle off a plate and taking a bite. Gabriel did the same, but spread most of a jar of Nutella on it before biting into it. Sam took one too, putting only a little bit of the hazelnut spread onto it.

"You hungry, Cas?" Sam asked around a bite. "Angels do not need to eat. When I eat I can only taste the molecules, not a flavor, so there is no real point," Castiel replied.

"Gabriel's an angel and he never stops eating candy," Dean said, mouth full of waffle.

"But I'm not really an angel," Gabriel said. "And the Trickster does what he wants."

"Whatever," Dean said, taking an other bite of waffle.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to the smell of something burning. Not wood, not a cigarette, not paper, a food. Judging by the time, a breakfast item. Not eggs, not meat, not muffins. Pancakes? No, waffles. Chocolate and hazelnuts...Nutella. Nutella Waffles. Who was burning Nutella waffles? Those men who were here last night. Why didn't they leave yet? They must have slept here, if they did sleep. Three men, was it? One who obviously missed someone he had seen recently but had left, and the other two who were madly in love with one another. The shorter one with golden hair had disguised himself as Lestrade, but how? He would ask him today before he left. He was the one who drove Moriarty out of Sherlock's mind. He still internally cringed at the memory. Moriarty ruined his mind palace. Sherlock had spent the majority of the previous night just cleaning the different rooms, rearranging shelves and organizing cabinets. His palace was already messy enough before Moriarty broke in and wrecked havoc throughout the place. At least now he had the opportunity to clean up. But the words he had scribbled across pages...graffitied on the walls...Sherlock shook his head and erased them.

"Sherlock?" he heard John ask to his left. "You alright, love?"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied, eyes still closed. "Go back to sleep."

"No, I'm going to go downstairs and see what's burning."

"Nutella waffles made by the tall man and his boyfriend," Sherlock deduced quickly.

"They're still here?" John asked.

"It seems so," Sherlock replied, opening his eyes. "They should be going soon enough, though."

"Alright," John said. "But I'm going downstairs now. If you-"

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted.

"What is it?" John asked.

"You referred to me as "love"."

John hesitated. "Would you rather I only call you by your name?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I think I like it."

"Then what's the trouble?"

"That's precisely the trouble."

"What?"

"I liked it when you used an endearment," Sherlock explained. "That's never happened to me before. It's an odd feeling."

"It's good that you're getting human emotions, Sherlock. They aren't bad things, you know."

"I know...but it's just so...ordinary to be in love." He said the word 'ordinary' like it was poison in his mouth.

"That's not a bad thing, Sherlock. And if you don't like it, I'll just leave."

"No!" Sherlock sat up quickly. "Don't leave. I didn't mean I don't love you because I do. I just need to adjust to having emotions this strong."

John smiled. "We'll take it slow," he promised. "It'll be alright."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed. "Slow."

"Now let's go downstairs before they burn down the flat." John opened the door and descended the stairs, Sherlock following closely behind him. They could hear voices echoing from the kitchen.

"But there are no nutritional values, Gabe!"

"Yes there are!"

"No there aren't!"

"Hazelnuts are heathy!"

"But there can't be that many per jar to make it considered heathy!"

"Ninety-four!"

"Excuse me?"

"NINETY-FOUR HAZELNUTS IN A JAR OF NUTELLA AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT!"

"But there's too much sugar!"

"No such thing as too much sugar, Sammoose!"

"You're impossible."

"I stand by my Nutella beliefs and nobody can stop me."

"Sam is correct, Gabriel," Sherlock said, striding into the room. "There are two hundred calories and twenty-one grams of sugar for every two tablespoons of Nutella, making it practically spreadable candy."

"Ha!" Sam said victoriously. "Even Sherlock Holmes agrees with me!"

Gabriel smirked evilly. "That's what you think," he said ominously.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked about to take a bite of Nutella waffle. His hand stopped just as his mouth opened. He was completely frozen. Sherlock had stopped moving as well. The tea kettle stopped steaming. Everything in the flat froze, except the trickster, hunters, and the angel.

"What the hell?" Dean said.

"Gabe, what did you do?" Sam asked.

Gabriel was still smirking evilly. He snapped. The 221B Baker Street became their motel room.

"Gabriel," Dean said. "What. The. Hell."

"Surprise!" Gabriel said. "Betchya thought all of that was real!"

"Wait," Sam said, "all of that was fake?"

"Yup," Gabriel said.

"What the hell?" Dean said again. "But...but John! Sherlock!"

"All three seasons are now available on DVD." Gabriel said, pulling some discs out of his pockets. The covers had Sherlock and John standing next to each other, with the word "SHERLOCK" in large letters underneath.

"You put us in _another TV show_?" Dean asked incredulously.

"You betchya!" Gabriel said.

"Why?" Dean asked.

"I just wanted my ships to become canon..."

"I don't understand," Castiel said. "Why are we talking about boats an cannons?"

"Yeah, I'm confused too," Sam said.

"What the hell?" Dean asked for the fourth time.

"Johnlock!" Gabriel said, earning blank looks from all members of the room. "C'mon, Johnlock! John plus Sherlock."

"You put us in a TV show so that John and Sherlock could get together?" Sam asked.

"Yeah..." Gabriel said sheepishly.

"You're almost as bad as Becky," Dean mumbled under his breath.

"Do not even compare my boyfriend to Becky."

"You would get tired of the tension in the room between them if you watched the show! Thanks to me, they don't have to worry about never confessing their feelings for each other!"

"How do you even know they're together?" Sam asked. "I was with you the whole time."

"There are fake Gabriels everywhere," Gabriel said. "One of them sat back invisibly in the corner and watched Johnlock become canon. They are so in love. And, not only did I make Johnlock happen, but Destiel, too! That's a plus!"

"What the hell is Destiel?" Dean asked Gabriel.

Gabriel waggled his eyebrows and disappeared.

"What the hell is Destiel?" Dean asked Sam.

Sam sighed. "It's like Johnlock. But instead of John plus Sherlock, it's Dean plus Castiel."

Dean looked appalled. "What?"

Castiel looked confused. "What?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Exactly."

"Did you know about this, Sam?" Castiel asked.

"What? No!" Sam answered. "'Course not, I swear!"

"Wait," Dean said. "Gabriel wanted me and Cas to get together?" "Yeah," Sam said. "It's been really annoying listening to him complain all the time."

"Wait wait wait, "all the time"? What's that supposed to mean?"

"He visits us on occasion while you're asleep. And yeah, I didn't tell you because you'd want to kill him."

Dean was overwhelmed. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he said. "It is way too early in the morning for this crap."

"How did you learn about this "Destiel"?" Cas asked Sam.

"While we were in the other universe–you know, the Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles universe?–I found these websites."

"What kind of websites?" Castiel asked.

"Really weird websites," Sam said. "Something called ' ' and 'Archive of Our Own' and the weirdest, 'tumblr'."

"And...?"

"On 'tumblr' there were these fans of the show we were on, _Supernatural_. And they called themselves 'fangirls'. And they 'shipped' you and Dean, which means they thought you two should get together. They had fanart and 'headcanons' and the worst: fanfictions."

"Oh god," Dean said. "Is that..."

"Yes," Sam said. "Stories they make about us."

"Not creepy at all," Dean said. Then his eyes widened in realization. "Oh hell no!" Dean said, glancing around the room for a camera or some creepy teenage girl documenting their lives. "Are we in one right now?"

"Maybe," Sam said. "It wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened to us."

"I don't understand..." Castiel said. "How can you tell that this is a 'fanfiction'?" He used air quotes for the last word.

"I don't know. Something just don't feel right. But I might be wrong," Dean said.

"Maybe," Sam agreed. "Maybe not."

"So can the fanfiction just end whenever we want it to?" Dean asked.

"I guess so," Sam said. "But how? And what happens after it ends?"

"Who cares!" Dean said recklessly. "Hey readers!" he called to you. "Yeah! You! You're reading this cuz you want me and Cas to be together!? Well I hope you're happy now! I! LOVE! CAS!" He pulled Castiel into a reckless kiss, Sam rolling his eyes in the background.

"Sorry about him," Sam said to you, wherever you were. "I think you're making him uncomfortable. So I think this is where I say...

"The End."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You heard Sam, the end. A really, really strange end, but an end nonetheless. At least you read it though, amiright? And here's the part where I ask you to review! I love you. 
> 
> Seriously, you *points to you* are the actual best.


End file.
